


The Prison of the Kiss

by Willa Shakespeare (AnonEhouse)



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: M/M, Not really prose poem but close, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prose Poem, Wordwooze
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-11 23:28:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonEhouse/pseuds/Willa%20Shakespeare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days the muse is a bit restless and tries for new forms. This is a hazy, dreamlike encounter. I started by using my random title generator and just let things happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Prison of the Kiss

(If you are reading this on any PAY site this is a STOLEN WORK, the author has NOT Given Permission for it to be here. If you're paying to read it, you're being cheated too because you can read it on Archiveofourown for FREE.)

Avon had stood up from the flight deck couch to argue with Blake one more time and gathered his breath for a scathing commentary on Blake's intelligence, morals and possibly personal hygiene. Blake was angry, too, and stood at the same moment.

They fell together, seemingly inevitably due to some imbalance in the artificial gravity perhaps, entirely without volition on either side. Hands reached to save balance, heads tilted to avoid smashing noses. 

And lips met. For a shattered, fractional instant, Avon knew they would pull apart, annoyed, possibly slightly embarrassed, and each go their own way, carrying their own anger still unabated, but no longer quite hot enough for outward expression. 

And then Blake breathed out, soft and warm into his mouth. Blake tasted... the way Blake smelled. Hot suede and warm leather, hints of musk and... oh, damn, Avon found himself moving his lips and licking his tongue against Blake's mouth, and his hands pulling Blake closer.

He didn't know what Blake thought of this, but there was no hesitation, no fractional withdrawal, no sense of Blake thinking about anything, really. Blake's hands went to Avon's arse, kneading and caressing, even as his generous mouth demanded, seduced, ordered...

There were no words, no promises, no bargains. Avon's hands turned clumsy, but managed to get Blake's shirt and trousers open; heavy, soft material opening like theatre curtains to display smooth, creamy skin, all his scars hidden, not like Avon's which were so blatantly on display from the sunrayed blaster splash across one shoulder to the welted patterning across his chest and belly -- the Federation hadn't wanted _him_ to forget them. But Blake...oh, they'd made a clean slate of his body, erased and smoothed and made as innocent as a new-born babe.

Blake seemed not to mind Avon's scars, pushing his clothes out of the way, more greedy even than Avon he silently insisted on full disclosure. His hands, big, and yet more deft than Avon's own in this heated, clouded, misty moment of pure madness, stripped Avon of all pretensions, all protections, all camouflage. And his gold-lit eyes pronounced it all good as he sucked Avon's non-existent soul into his own body, covering him with wet kisses, the marks cool against heated flesh, tingling as they dried, leaving him feeling invisibly branded, labeled as Blake's property.

Avon's mind spiraled away from his body, taking all resentment and fear and forethought. He was turned and laid across the couch, spread and licked and invaded, soft, soft, gentle, and sweet. And then hot and rough and pain licking like fire and crying out and pressing back and his body begging for more. Only this. More. 

And getting it, getting all and more. Heat and pressure and pain and comfort and pressure and pain, and moving and fast, fast, more, split open and filled and hot and wet and shouting and shouting and...

falling

to

reality, and feeling ice in his veins, and cold steel bars as Blake's warm, too warm, gentle, too gentle, arms came around and cradled him and held him close, too close.

And Avon knew he would never escape.

Would never want to escape. 

He closed his eyes against hot and wet and sting. Soft lips touched the back of his neck, followed by hot, wet, sting, and he knew, he knew. He had locked Blake in with him.

He reached out his hand, and was met. Held. Joined.

He slept.


End file.
